


The Willing Sacrifice

by Tammany



Series: The Secret Marriage [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom Greg Lestrade, M/M, Mild BDSM, Mild Kink, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sub Mycroft, VERY MILD water-play. Really. Very mild., mild Dom/Sub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 04:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20859878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: All right. I knew there was room for more story. There still is.The first morning of the Sex Holiday.Mycroft demonstrates the paradoxical nature of a willing submissive...This one REMAINS KINKY. I really do not want anyone blundering in who's not ready for comparatively mild, subversively troped consensual, no-damage low-angst kink. All the participants are willing, and all are prepared to take action to adapt things if they are not having a good time. But they are having a good time being kinky, and there's no way out of that.





	The Willing Sacrifice

Mycroft woke before Greg. His bladder ached and his intestines were ready to vent. He considered.

Their agreement was gentle, and the game had to be erotic for both. Greg would not take any joy refusing his Mike basic, fundamental civilities. Mycroft wasn’t sure if he would find it erotic or not. It could easily be that one step too far that triggered either laughter or revulsion.

But—denying himself the luxury, so that his husband could go first?

He shivered, as he lay at Greg’s feet. He could wait. Or, if he found he couldn’t wait, he could scurry to the john and take care of business with no fear of reprisal. It would lose him nothing to try. It was the counterpart of submitting to his husband’s will: disciplining himself to become the meek husband he hungered to be for Greg. It was like static dancing on his skin, the longing to be for Greg—only for Greg—the kind of husband who lay passive at his feet, refusing to precede him into the john. Humbled by both Greg’s commands and his own.

He curled himself under the blanket, pressing lightly into Greg’s feet, planting them over his bladder, letting his weight push forward. The sense of Greg, solid above him, of himself in a place of surrender, of the need to go. That stirred him. He closed his eyes, clenched off the flood gates and the sphincter of his bum. Felt biology fight will.

He dropped into endurance-space.

He had always known endurance-space. Waiting space. The space in which you could not say what you wished, because.

Because.

Because Mummy and Father would be disappointed.

Because Eurus might realize he was prey.

Because no one wanted to hear he was afraid of his baby sister.

Because no one wanted to know he was afraid his brother could become just like his baby sister.

Because no one listened to little boys.

Or…

Because he wanted what he already knew he must not want.

Because he understood already that he was not supposed to touch himself this way, or that way, or want to be used this other way. And rather than kill his inner self by stopping, he chose to stay silent, and continue unconfessing.

Because this observation or that belonged to him, and him only, and he refused to surrender it to a mocking world.

Or…

Because Uncle Rudy taught him well. “Be what you want but be it quietly. It’s safer, my boy. Suits at work—silk and lace knickers at home. That’s the way of it. Never forget.”

Or…

Because Sherlock’s eyes were too keen, and his loyalties far too questionable, even as a child. The curly-haired angel was too quick to dart away, shouting “Euuuuurus, Mikey stole the honey out of the pantry!” Never trust Sherlock. Love him. Never, never trust him. He’ll betray you in a second—and laugh at the betrayal forever after.

Or…

Because secrets are powerful. Private contracts with yourself the currency of internal wealth. They are the one great magic, more powerful than a thousand Saurons, more powerful than the One Ring. The secret compact with yourself…

Or…

Because only a fool announces his pain—whether that pain is unwanted, or cherished. Whether you are a little boy, or a grown spy, or a hidden power in government, or a submissive lover balancing self against surrender… Never announce your pain.

And all of this is managed in endurance-space, silent, unacknowledged. Mycroft was good at endurance-space.

He licked his lips, closed his eyes, drifted. It hurt. Just enough. He needed. Just enough. If he lost control, he’d wet himself, which would be horrible. But even horrible, it would be horrible in a context that fed the flame of this week of humility. Greg would sensibly point out it was his own damned fault, and insist he change the bed and wash the sheets himself, and that would be just one more detail of meek submission.

He held on.

It was at least an hour, he thought, before Greg stirred, turned, murmured under his breath. Stretched, toes punching into Mycroft’s bladder, making him choke back a whine. Realized his lover was at his feet, not his side. Paused—then traced Mycroft’s belly with his toes, caressed his cock, teased him. Mycroft was in the horrible state of half-wood, unable to easily release his pee, unable to avoid knowing how much he needed to. Greg greeted the plump morning erection with a chuckle, not aware of the full bladder behind it.

“Mornin’ love.”

“Good morning, Greg,” Mycroft said, keeping his voice steady. “Did you sleep well?”

“With my nice bedwarmer keeping my feet warm?” He chuckled again, blending earthy, vulgar desire with practical amusement. “Yeah, love. I slept well. You?”

“Quite.” Mycroft sighed. It would break the internal rules as he saw them to suggest Greg go to the john—please, God, go to the john and finish, so I can go… “You slept in late.”

“Bliss. I may come to really appreciate having a needy little boy who has to be properly put in his place as my husband. More sex holidays for me.” His toes tickled the head of Mycroft’s cock.

Mycroft moaned, trapped between biological urges.

Greg rolled lazily out of bed, stretched in the late morning sun. The bedroom was windowed like the parlor, with one-way plate glass that looked over the back garden of the rooftop suite: One double-paned sliding door flanked by two huge panes, glass from side to side with carefully maintained green perennials and water features beyond, concluding in an amusingly rustic spa and sauna cabin. “May take you out to play today,” he said, eyeing the arbors and shrubberies. “Easy enough to find sufficient cover.”

The thought was incredible. Public enough to trigger Mycroft’s sense of submission. Private enough it was mostly illusion.

Nggg.

“Lovely,” he managed to murmur, crossing his thighs and fighting not to squirm as Greg padded to the window, looked out speculatively at the shadowy nooks and thickets on the perfect urban retreat.

Greg scratched his head. Flexed muscles. Padded, at last, toward the head. Paused.

“We could start the way we intend to go on,” he said, voice amused. “You could be nicely bent over the bed for me when I come out from my shower.”

Mycroft’s jaw tightened. “I…may not be able to oblige.” He shivered.

Greg, clever and aware, considered. Then considered a moment more. Then snorted.

“What a good boy you are,” he murmured. Then, “Up. Now. I think I want to see you start your day, boy.”

Mycroft whined. It wasn’t quite what he’d intended. But…

He managed to stand without losing control, and minced his way across the lush carpet to the en suite, Greg following behind huffing his amusement softly, and making free with Mycroft’s arse in possessive playfulness.

“Need to piss?”

“Yes.” Mycroft bit it off, feeling the need more because Greg knew about it now.

“Want to use the head first?”

“Wasn’t going to.”

“Shy? Don’t want me to watch?”

A reason Mycroft had not had in mind. But knowing he would be watched…

That had its own arousing details.

“Pee first. I’d say ‘slowly,’ but like as not you’re well past it, you masochistic git. But pee first, standing, while I watch.”

“Yes, Greg.” He stood in front of the bowl, forced his unruly cock down, and then struggled, forcing sexual desire to give way to urinary demands. He finally opened the dam, and the flood began.

And continued.

And continued.

He moaned in relief and embarrassment, as Greg studied him with mischievous brown eyes.

“So—you were going to make a morning sacrifice to the Masterful Husband, baby?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t work the way you planned?”

“No.”

“Not gonna tell you not to make plans. Like it when you make plans, baby boy. But gotta point out, you may be infallible as the British Government. Here?” His hand wandered over Mycroft’s bum again, giving a gentle squeeze, then a sharp smack as the flow finally ended. “Here, you are merely human, Mike, and you make mistakes. You can sit, now. When you are done, get the shower started and then wait for me.”

Mycroft blushed as he sat.

Human. Merely human, and he made mistakes. And his husband teased him, and chided him, and watched with brutal intimacy as he demonstrated his weakness. And then prepared to use him, knowing Mycroft would willingly be used.

His husband waited until he was finished with the toilet, then took it over himself, cock out to pee first, every move contented and in control, confident, authoritative. He wasn’t as tall as Mycroft, and his cock was not quite as long—but it was the mightier beast, and he knew Mycroft took mingled pleasure and shame at being so out-hung. “That’s right—you can look while you get the water the right temperature. Gather my shaving tack, too—get it in the shower. You might as well make yourself useful as my barber while we’re in there.”

Mycroft scurried, averting his eyes as Greg cheerfully expanded into his role as Master of the House.

He’d married a cop, with undercover training, who had gone on to work with MI5 and MI6. Greg could flow into a role like milk into a pitcher. As he came more and more awake, he was more and more fully into character. He watched Mycroft move, eyes ignoring social boundaries, face reflecting thoughts only the dominant were allowed to demonstrate so openly. Lust. Desire. Amusement. Intent. Just the right trace of mischievous malice.

When he was done, he stood and stepped into the shower without even bothering to test the water. He gave a huffing gasp…but didn’t complain. Mycroft knew he liked it hot, and Greg knew that hot was not pleasant at first. He didn’t scold his boy for the shock. Instead he reached out, took Mycroft by the wrist, and pulled him in. He pinned him against the tiles and nosed into his neck, hand caressing his cock. “Good morning, boy,” he murmured. “Going to be my little ray of sunshine?”

“Yes…” Mike was growing hard again.

“That’s my good baby. First, let me watch you get clean all over.” He sat on the tiled shower bench, arms crossed, eyes intent.

Mycroft nodded. He took toothbrush and toothpaste and scrubbed his teeth. Rinsed his mouth. Poured body gel into his hand and washed from top down: hair, face, neck. He neither hurried nor dawdled, but when he reached erotic points he pinched and touched and caressed them, giving his husband a show. He reached his groin, and washed it well. His cock was hard, now, and his balls swung heavy. He turned, bent over, and proceeded to clean his arse crack and bum, then slid soapy fingers in to wash the inside, as deep as he could reach. He rejoiced at Greg’s deep, bull-like grumble of desire…

Legs. Feet. He was clean. He turned to his husband. “Do you want me shaved? And how completely?”

“Sexy stubble, boy. You only get to shave when I say so.”

He nodded, then said, “I believe you wanted a barber?”

“In a bit,” Greg said, standing.

He repeated Mycroft’s cleansing, but with a swaggering carelessness, a bravado. Not submission, but braggadocio. He was the bull, preparing to mount his mate.

It was riveting, at least to Mycroft, who waited with the razor and the shaving foam.

“Take care of me, baby,” Greg growled.

Mycroft did, each move obedient and willing. He was careful, but skilled. Greg’s cheeks and neck were smooth as satin when he was done.

“That’s it.”

“How else are you going to take care of me, Mike?”

“Any way you want.”

Greg studied his boy—hard and hungry and in need of being mastered. He smiled.

“Sit on the bench, boy.”

Mike felt his guts clutch. His husband wasn’t going to take him this morning. Not yet. The patience and meekness he’d intended to show by holding his water was going to have to be demonstrated in other forms of patient endurance.

He sat, though, eyes on Greg.

“Show how good you are, boy,” Greg said, hand cradling his heavy cock, as he came close.

“Yes, Greg.”

Mycroft fell into his own role. He was boy. He lived by his husband’s rule, and counted on his husband’s kindness, and served his husband with willing enthusiasm, no matter what his husband asked for. He leaned forward, opening his mouth wide, and rested his hands on Greg’s hips, pulling him gently forward. “Take my mouth, Greg,” he whispered, mouthing the tender foreskin with his lips. He pursed his mouth over the sliding skin, tickled the opening with the tip of his tongue, inviting the coming invasion.

Greg drove in, the tight ring of Mycroft’s mouth rolling back his foreskin, revealing the sleek, tender skin of his knob beneath. He moaned, drove as far as he could, then pulled back.

Mycroft drew his tongue in, fattened it, pressed the tip up, sucked.

He felt Greg reach up and back. The shower shifted, and they were under the crashing torrent—too hot for Mycroft, but sexy, because it was Greg’s temperature, Greg’s luxury, the kind of shower in which Greg indulged them both.

He lapped his husband’s prick, and cradled his balls, tugging them gently, fingering his perineum, tracing the line of his arse crack, pressing against his hole.

Above him his husband moaned. Greg planted his hands on either side of the wall above Mycroft, and spread his feet until they gripped the walls as well as the floor. He thrust, fucking Mycroft’s mouth without hesitation. The water hit his back and sprayed, adding to the stream that flowed over Mycroft.

It was good.

God, it was good.

Mycroft’s own hard-on pressed between his legs, and for a moment he considered bringing himself off, by hand or by friction from his own thighs. But that failed to accomplish the point of this exercise: the discipline, the restraint, the denial, fulfilling the sacrifice he’d intended from the moment of waking, just in a different form.

His husband didn’t refuse to let him choose his own sacrifices on occasion. He made it easier, and hotter…

The cock slamming in and out showed no sign of release. He glanced up through water-spangled lashes, seeing Greg’s face set in determination to play this out as long as possible. To ensure his humble husband felt properly used.

“That’s a good boy,” he panted, breath stirring the steam of the shower. “That’s a good little cocksucker, isn’t it?”

Mycroft grunted agreement, body and mind on fire with satisfaction. This—this was what he’d wanted for all those weeks. This was how he’d longed to feel. Owned…but by such a good owner. Taken…but by a man with skill. Tormented…but wisely so, cannily so, cleverly so. Abused…but only in longed-for symbol.

He was Greg’s filthy boy, sucking him down obediently, serving him in his morning shower.

It was a small forever later before Greg came in crashing waves, spurting down Mycroft’s throat so hard he couldn’t keep up. The leaking semen washed away in the shower’s stream.

Then it was done. Greg straightened and pulled out, grinning. “Fuck, yeah. Helluva way to wake up, baby boy. Now—up. Help me dry off and get dressed. He grabbed Mycroft’s wrist and a towel, and pulled them out into the bedroom. He handed the towel over.

“That’s my good boy,” he purred. “Show me what good care you want to take of me.”

Mycroft stood, wet and shivering, nipples turned to nubs, cock and balls withering and pulling tight in the chill air of the bedroom. He nodded, and tenderly, carefully wrapped Greg in the towel and proceeded to dry him, a gentle inch at a time. He kissed each new dry area as he finished it.

As he did, his husband petted him and praised him.

“Good baby. That’s my Mikey. What a good boy you are… This is what you want, isn’t it, baby? To serve your Man right?”

“Yes…”

It was. It was what he’d tried to write into their secret marriage contract, fearing he wouldn’t manage it in spite of all his efforts.

He knew it was peculiar, that he had set the goals. That he continued to set goals, to plan ahead, to dream of ways to be owned by his beloved. To submit himself. But he did. He knew what he wanted out of this, as much as it humiliated him. To be owned, yes. To serve. Yes. To have Greg take pleasure in owning such a good boy. Yes. To offer more than he felt comfortable offering, and to have Greg take it without apology or shame—instead to rub it in, that his Mikey was a good little slut.

And Mycroft made every effort to ensure Greg would find it easy to do, easy to enjoy, easy to feel at ease with. He planned…and he indulged himself…and he never failed to deliver on the implied promises he set out for Greg to collect on.

He selected a cologne for his husband—expensive, subtle, light but unmistakable. He stroked it onto Greg’s skin. He chose a casual shirt and chinos and helped dress him. Selected a supple belt, a single layer of leather thick, with the thought of perhaps a good thrashing later: it was so buttery it would hardly leave a mark, but folded double and smacked hard, it would sting like hell and make a lovely noise. Last he pulled Greg’s right hand to his mouth and kissed the grand black sapphire, then the back of Greg’s hand, then his palm.

“You are too good to me,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

Greg slid his hand from Mycroft’s hold, up his arm, to grip the nape of his neck firmly, forcing him to remain with his head down, fingers pressing hard into neck and scalp.

“You are mine,” he said, growling, as though that covered the entire topic.

And Mycroft knew in some way it did. What Greg owned, he cared for. Including screwed up power-kink submissive husbands who every so often needed to be possessed and used in a very special way.

A moment later Greg smacked Mycroft’s arse. “Go make coffee for me. When you’re done bring it out to the arbor, by the koi pond. Take your time—I don’t want MET slop, I want the kind of good shit the British Government buys to spoil himself. A plate of runny eggs on buttered toast, too. Chop-chop, my sweet little bumboy, show me how eager you are to pleeeease me. Don’t keep your husband waiting.”

Mycroft hurried out the door, aware of all the things said and unsaid.

Soon he would be naked in the arbor, in the chill air of London, hidden only by cleverly placed screens and plantings. Soon his husband would add some detail of submission to the day out there.

He couldn’t wait to find out what his husband had in mind. Wondering occupied him well—along with a pleased review of the morning so far. He thought he might try the thing with "peeing last" again…now that Greg knew he might, it might work. And…

In his mind the possibilities danced and sang, as he imagined all the ways he could be taken.  
  
  
Query: In retrospect I find myself wondering if Mycroft's plan to pee second--limited urine retention--warrants a special tag. I mean, it wasn't what I would call classic water-play. Or even particularly "hold it till you die." I left it out because it seemed too mild to warrant a warning.  
  
Am I wrong? And if so, how the heck does one label "tries to hold pee as an act of self-imposed titillation with no intention of pushing it all that far"?


End file.
